A/N: Hi. Me again with another short story based on a piece called 'Adolf' by D.H. Lawrence I read some months ago. I got a crazy idea to do my own version, a Richonne version, but please no one sue me. This is part one of four. Enjoy.
ADAM
Part 1: The Arrival
For most of my young life, every weekday, from Monday to Friday, at the precise hour of five a.m. my father, Jack Williams, would trudge his weary soul through the back door, and into the house. At first, I assumed he had preferred to work the night shift. Once, when I asked him why, he said to me, "The war, Michonne, the war. It was the same way with my father, and, my father's father."
His intentions never were to repeat the pattern, but the universe, along with the inherited weakness in his bloodlines, had not seen it fit to disallow the tradition. He didn't like leaving his wife and three children alone without his protection, his property, his territory unguarded throughout the long, potentially dangerous, darkened hours. But, he did not like suffering through his night terrors even more.
On the other hand, the slow, quiet pace, in the late hours at the warehouse, kept him content. He loved listening to the soft jazz crooning from his desk radio, and he delighted in the "nonsensical" machinations of his workers. Bonding over long-abandoned, but not forgotten, wistful dreams, talking, laughing, teasing, and swapping outrageous stories about their pasts, about their families, distracted my father just enough from worrying too much about us, his loved ones, slumbering at home.
My father loved people. In particular, complex and crazy people. People who, despite being laid low by their burdens and their fears, still managed to hold on to their pride and their integrity. People who never used their shortcomings as an excuse to shirk their responsibilities. In other words, Jack Williams loved people like himself.
One morning, not too long after I turned eighteen, on the first day of Spring break, it rained. No, not just rained, there was a downpour, the winds whipped the elm trees out front, and the sky darkened to a demonic grey. The time was six-thirty, and my father was not yet home. My mother, her eyes darting out of the kitchen window, kept tucking in the back of her hairnet, signaling her nervousness.
My siblings and I, still in our nightwear, focused, in silence, on our assignment of setting out breakfast on the dining table, when finally, our father's old pickup could be heard roaring into the driveway. A few seconds later, his presence and authority dwarfed the tiny kitchen area.
"Penny, move quick and gets me a coffee and some grits," my father ordered, his raincoat and boots dripping on my mother's hardwood floor.
As soon as Mama placed his requests into his hands, he made an about-face, and strode back out to the foyer. Tyrese, Sasha, Mama, and I scuttled after him and into the living room.
My father set his mug and bowl on the table in front of someone sitting on Mama's lilac-grey couch. It was a man. A young, scraggly, white man, drenched from head to toe, in a dark jacket and t-shirt, soiled grey sweatpants, and shabby brown army boots. His eyes were hollow, his face was dirty and bruised, and his lips blistered. On the other hand, his chestnut hair was trimmed low, and his beard wasn't overgrown.
Mama cupped her apple cheeks and released a heavy sigh. "Oh Jack."
He shrugged off his jacket before helping the silent stranger peel off his own soaked garment.
"Tyreese," my father called to my big brother, giving him the wet items, "go on and get the man some dry clothes."
Already turning on his heels, Ty scurried down the hall and headed up the staircase. He knew exactly what to do, this wasn't the first time.
Over the years, Jack Williams was in the habit, you see, of bringing home wandering, lost souls, for a night or two. Usually, veterans such as himself.
'Our Father, who resideth on Earth, in St. Joseph, Alabama. Blessed be your name.'
As Daddy handed his steaming breakfast over to the trembling man, my father took Mama's hand and stepped back out into the hallway. Little Sasha and I, traipsing right behind him, unleashed our curiosity in hushed voices.
"Where did you find him? How long this one gonna stay?"
Sasha wrapped her short arms around Father's leg.
"He was roaming out there," Daddy said. "'bout two miles down on Jeffrey's Highway. And I reckon he won't be long. Took some convincing just to get him into the truck."
"Goddammit Jack!" Mama yanked her hand away.
My eyes narrowed and I brushed my mother's back. "Daddy why you keep upsetting Mama like this?"
"The storm was coming Penelope," he defended. "I couldn't just drive away."
But I wondered about his brand-new Nokia. Why didn't he at least ring, give us some sort of warning?
"He a Marine Daddy?" asked Sasha, eyes wide staring, completely ignoring the brewing tension. "What's his name? Where's he from?"
My father shook his head and pinched her dimpled chin as he gave a grim response. "He can't say. He don't remember much."
"Then why did you bring him here?" cried Mama. "There's the shelter, the hospital. Have you no care, no sympathy for my nerves? The last one was supposed to be the last one. Or have you forgotten?"
Tyreese reappeared. Dry, clean clothes folded neatly in his arms. A towel, bar of soap and a new toothbrush set on top. "Look at him Mama," he jutted his chin towards the living room, "he's in a sorry state, he can't hurt nobody."
I shot my brother a condescending look of disbelief. "Tyreese, you sound stupid, he got teeth and all his senses, don't he?"
"He might be crazy but that don't make him dangerous."
My hands rose to my hips and I tilted my head. "You weren't here for Christmas."
"I'm here now. And well at least I ain't cold and heartless," Tyreese retorted, crossing his bulky arms across his chest.
"Times are changing baby," my mother tried to reason, "We can't be so trusting nowadays."
"Shut up the both of you," Daddy barked. "Everybody be quiet." My father rubbed his balding head and squeezed his eyes shut. We all stared at him, holding our breaths waiting to hear the end of his internal deliberations.
His heart was too big. Too soft for his own good, my mother always said.
Finally, Daddy reopened his warm brown eyes and surveyed each one of us. His clan. His heart and soul. "I know I done made y'all a promise, and after things went bad before, I said it woulda been the last time. But I… I just got a feeling, something tugging inside a me about this one. This young man, something about his eyes, like-like he's trapped in a nightmare."
Nodding her understanding, Mama sighed and placed her palm against Daddy's broad chest. But then she said, "You putting yourself and this family at risk Jack. You want me to just accept that?"
"Yes. Just a couple of days help Penny, is all I'm asking. Only the Lord can read a person's heart."
"Exactly." She cocked her chin up at him. "And you ain't the Lord."
Daddy sucked in a deep breath, straightening his six-foot two stature, as he eyed his five-foot four wife. He stepped around her, and we all watched as he returned to our new houseguest, who'd already consumed the coffee and grits.
My father sat beside him and placed his large hand on the fella's narrow shoulder. "Hey, look at me son. We goin' take care of yuh, yuh hear?"
In a hoarse whisper, shaky with fear, he responded, "Y-Yes Sir."
Later on, whilst the stranger bathed and cleaned himself, a thorough search was made of his jacket pockets, but nothing was found that indicated who he might've been. No Id card, no driver's permit, no bank card, no weapons—nothing. All we had were the clues we could see.
On his right forearm there was a Liberty or Death tattoo. That, along with the star on the upper leg of his sweatpants, his boots, his toy soldier stance, and his weak, yet stealthy movements, told us that Daddy's suspicions about this wanderer being a military man, may have been right. His nails were short and clean, his teeth in good order, so, he also hadn't been homeless for too long either.
Afterwards, my mother got her first-aid kit and patched him up, putting her nursing skills to use. Other than the bruises on his arms and his face, there was a nasty injury at the back of his head. A gash, looked about a few days old—two, maybe three—and according to Mama, was the probable cause for his 'apparent' loss of memory. Long, but not so deep, she assessed that ten stitches would've been good enough to close the wound.
When the stranger returned downstairs, Daddy fed him again. His appetite was insatiable. He devoured everything within seconds. The scrambled eggs, the bagels, the fried sausages, and the orange juice, which Sasha couldn't refill fast enough. Although alert, to a greater extent, once we had put some more food into him, no matter what questions my father asked, our visitor, with his assessing gaze, remained uncommunicative. At least for that first day. He just ate.
Finally, Tyreese led him back to the now pulled-out couch, which I covered in fresh sheets, where the stranger laid down and promptly fell asleep. His slumber, however, was a restless one. Twitching, jerking, and mumbling in between. At one point, we all stood hovering by the living room entranceway, trying to make out bits and pieces of his jumbled speech.
"No Sir…" "Over the hill…" "First pink mist…" "Adam…Adam…Adam."
He called that name over and over again, his disturbed jolting form a direct contrast to the soft calming pastel hues of our family room.
Suddenly, his babbling came in a completely different tongue.
Difficult to understand at first, but then my mother gasped, and clutched her gold necklace. "Oh Lord Jack! You done brought us a Russian spy."
Daddy shook his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Just his ethnicity. Doesn't mean anything bad Penny."
"Mean nothing good either," she maintained.
"He's one of ours. So, let's not go down that road—"
"Not everybody's part of the brotherhood Jack," Mama cut across him, folding her arms tightly over her chest. "Even if they is."
I grimaced at my mother, not only confused about how quickly she determined his Russian dialect, but also, her suspicious nature was edging closer to flat out paranoia.
"You do know that the Cold war's been over for like 5 years now, right?" Tyreese said, just as concerned by her rash assumption that this man was a foreign secret agent. "They got a new constitution and everything."
"That's what you think," she said. "You can't underestimate those Russians. The Soviets got special training in all sorts of ways. " Mama's assertive tone sounded exactly like her old man's, Grandpa Stockett. Our family's very own conspiracy-theorist. "Tenacious, sneaky bastards. And he might be one of them." She pointed at the homeless man.
Our eyes locked on to the sleeping stranger as he started up again.
"Stay out of the zone. Bud' luchshim. Nikogda ne sdavaysya."
Mama gripped Daddy's hand in hers. "Did you hear that Jack?"
My Father gave no response. He just frowned with pity.
"Let's leave him alone," I said, backing away. Getting a sickening feeling about us gawking at our visitor like a two-headed peacock on display. We all had better things to do than intrude on a person's nightmares.
Dinnertime came and went, and our guest had not yet risen from his rest. We started referring to him as 'Adam,' knowing full well that that probably wasn't his given name, but we thought it was better than calling him 'that man.' Thankfully, by the time my father had left for work that evening, his fits had subsided completely.
As the night's hours rolled by, and everyone else had gone to sleep, I laid awake in my room, staring up at my ceiling with one side of my headphones still on. Suddenly, through the voices of the Gallagher brothers serenading me from my Sony Walkman, I became aware of a disturbance, from somewhere inside of the house. I got up, unlocked my door, and followed the commotion. Venturing down through the hallway, I turned into the lit kitchen, where I spotted him—'Adam'— rummaging through the fridge like a wild animal.
Heat flushed through my body. I darted behind him and grabbed his arm, pulling him back. "Get away from our food."
I don't know why I did that—put my hands on a deranged, homeless man. My impulsive reaction was not my brightest moment. In the next second, Adam spun around and shoved me hard, causing me to stumble before slipping to the floor.
"Don't touch me," he growled.
In an instant, my hand shot up to the drawer behind my head and pulled it open. I sprang to my feet and yanked out a carving knife.
"My mother was right," I heard myself say, my heart racing a mile a minute. "My father should've never brought your crazy ass into our home."
His already tightened features hardened towards me. A deathly look glazed over his eyes, turning them to a glacial blue. "I agree."
My own eyes then widened, and my shoulders tensed, at hearing the harsh clarity in his voice. I took a deep breath, demanding my body to regain some goddamned composure. I needed to act sensibly. "Are you saying we shouldn't trust you?" I prayed he didn't detect the tremor in my voice.
He eyed the eight-inch blade clutched in my hand. "Probably." His tone drawled, deep and threatening.
Even though I was the one armed, Adam's narrowed eyes, his rigid stance, legs apart, made him look like a predator ready to pounce, and made me feel like a cornered mouse. I wanted to scream bloody murder. Really I did, but I didn't, I didn't back down.
"Probably what?" I asked.
He took a single step forward and nodded at the knife. "Why don't you go ahead and put that away?"
I raised the cutting tool to the level of his encroaching face. "Why don't you go ahead and leave?"
We stared each other down for a long, hard moment. And I have to admit, I was too afraid to blink. My breaths were coming out in bursts, whilst his were even and steady.
"Yeah, you know you're right," he said, after a while. "You probably, shouldn't, trust me. Nowadays, it's all about survival —"
With one swift movement, he jammed his hands against my wrist, sending the knife clattering across the kitchen floor. Before I could lunge for it, he'd already snatched the blade up, and dropped it into the sink.
"Then again…" he said. "I'm not the one drawing weapons."
"You shoved me to the ground," I hissed, my pulse drumming in my ear.
"You grabbed me from behind."
"You were scavenging from our fridge." My eyes narrowed at him with a disdainful glare. "After my father took pity on you. Have you no shame?"
His head dipped as he leveled his gaze with mine, and in an unexpected moment, a flash of remorse softened his fierce demeanor. "I-I'm sorry. I'm not gonna hurt you."
A strange sensation invaded my chest by the candidness in his fixed stare. I became immobilized by uncertainty. "Y-you can't say that, you don't even remember who you are… Or do you?"
His eyes drifted to the left, and he sighed, "No. No I don't."
"So, you could hurt us. Or you could steal from us, try to burn our house to the ground while we're all asleep."
"That's happened before?"
Not sure why, but I confessed. "Yes." Not that every wanderer Daddy brought home treated us in unkind ways. Most were harmless. Sweet and friendly, grateful and kind. Over the years, though, we also encountered one too many scoundrels. The last s.o.b. left my mother terrified and jaded up to this day.
He nodded and passed his hand along the stitches at the back of his head. "My mind may be disoriented right now, and I can't recall the exact details of my life...Regardless, I know who I am, as a man. And that's not in me—Taking advantage of people, being kind and hospitable to a lost man like myself? No, I wouldn't do that."
I scoffed at him. I may have been young, but I wasn't a fool. The reality was you can't trust people nowadays, but it wasn't my house, so having this stranger there wasn't my call to make.
Realizing that I was no longer a threat, he relaxed against the kitchen sink, and allowed his attentions to wander about the room. From the dark mahogany floors, to the contrasting white wooden cabinets, up to the open shelves, and the handmade spice racks adorning the light blue wall behind me.
"Wouldn't be here Miss," he said, "if I knew what had happened, what led me out on that highway walking aimlessly. I just need a chance to catch my breath, and figure things out. That's all. If I can do that, I promise you, I'll move on."
Despite my petite stature from my mother, I lifted my chin, squared my shoulders, and lengthened my posture, like my father. "You have until tomorrow," I said, keeping my voice low but firm, as though his presence in my house was remotely dependent on my choice. "And," I continued, "if you want something, ask."
He bit his lip and nodded.
Unclenching my fists, I backed out of the kitchen before turning to march off to my room. My other option would've been to drag my line-backer brother out of his bed, haul him downstairs, and convince him to physically remove this psycho from our humble abode.
I shook my head. No, too much drama. Seriously. And I'd had enough excitement and—
"Some toast would be nice."
Already in the foyer, my feet came to a halt and I spun around. "What?"
Leaning against the framed archway, he shrugged, wearing a ghost of a smile that made him look all the more dangerous. "Toast," he repeated, "And a glass of O.J. if you would be so kind…please?"
'Are you kidding me?'
My lips pursed in annoyance, and I darkened my gaze at him. "You drank it all. There's only milk."
"Fine. That's fine."
I stormed passed him back into the kitchen. He took a seat at the table, and I grabbed a loaf of bread from the pantry, cursing myself and my inbred southern hospitality. I should've told him to go ahead and suck salt, to wait till it was breakfast like everyone else in the morning
Instead, I arched my brow at this ass and asked, "You want some fries with that?"
Out of all the peculiar things he'd done since his arrival, less than twenty-four hours ago, none of it unnerved me to the pit of my stomach, as much as what he did right then. He laughed.
By the next morning, I had resolved to steer clear of Adam.
Which meant finding purpose outside of the house, albeit just for one day. It was Spring Break after all, why not 'escape' to Mike's, my boyfriend, house, and spend the majority of my time lounging by his pool with him.
Over breakfast, however, I was taken aback by the unexpected scene that played out at the kitchen table. Before my eyes was no longer the brooding, shifty, ominous character from the night before. This man had switched to a new persona as he engaged in a rather jovial discussion with my brother about how the family, us Williams, christened him without his consent.
"Well," Adam said, slapping Tyreese on the back, "if not that, could be anything else. Could be worse. Like George."
Tyrese chuckled. "Or Bucky."
His efforts at being amiable even went as far as him offering to lend Ty a helping hand with his house duties—washing Daddy's truck, and mowing the front lawn.
"I could tend to that garden out there too," Adam volunteered, before jumping up from his seat to collect everyone's dirty dishes.
'Mama's garden? Hmph.'
Any and everything to get into our good graces, I guessed. But no, my mother wouldn't fall for his calculating act. Not that—
"He wanna work?" Mama said, all of a sudden, whilst placing the remainder of her biscuits, one by one, into a plastic container. "Fine by me. Won't say no to an extra set of hands."
My heart froze for half a second. I tilted my head, puzzled at her acquiescence. "Really?"
"Michonne," her voice lowered to a whisper, "at least he'd be out there instead of in here. Not like we fixing to have him around for much longer baby. In any case, he looks good and able to be on his way after today."
Once everyone cleared the table, Daddy, before shuffling to bed to take his rest, took a few minutes outside on the front porch swing to sit and talk with Adam.
My father questioned him, gently prodding his memories, whilst also relaying the personal experiences of other fellow soldiers he'd known, who'd also suffered from temporary amnesia.
I curled up in the wicker rocking chair, in the far corner of the patio, reading Michael Anthony's 'All That Glitters.' Whilst waiting for Mike to arrive, I had listened to the cadence in my father's voice as he spoke with fondness about his time served in the U.S. Army.
When all was said and done, Daddy missed being active in the service, despite being left scarred and jaded from fighting for his country. A part of him, a huge part to be honest, still held on to those eight years of duty as though it were a lifetime. The honor, the comradery, the sacrifice… you can't get that out here, he would lament. Throughout my eighteen years of existence, I'd acquired a clear understanding and, to an extent, a measure of appreciation, that for my father being in the military gave him purpose. He was a part of a community, he had a role to play. A role which contributed to something greater than himself.
Rejoining society as a regular civilian was incredibly difficult. He was lost without that uniform, that sense of purpose, direction…that respect. He felt empty, and aimless, and didn't know how to just be a man, an individual person, to just be himself.
Until he met Mama, of course, Penelope Maria Stockett, a resident nurse at St. Joseph's Memorial hospital. In his own words, 'Life became colored with new meaning.'
Nevertheless, a void existed within him. Small, but persistent. Reaching out, even in little ways, to assist other servicemen, his brothers, who'd, for one reason or the other, found themselves left with nothing but the shirts on their back, gave my father a degree of satisfaction and a dose of fulfillment. It was why my mother indulged him and his charitable ways over the years, despite the consequences to herself.
Even though Adam neither confirmed, nor denied, being a soldier himself, my father informed him about the services available to render assistance for their 'kind' such as healthcare, and the contacting of one's family members.
Other than "Yes Sir. No Sir." Adam, however, remained quiet. Which prompted Daddy to add that there was no rush, and that Adam could take all the time he needed. I stiffened in my seat, highly doubting that my father discussed this new arrangement with my mother.
When Mike arrived in his father's Cadillac to pick me up, Adam and Tyreese were battling with the rusty lawn mower out in the yard. Mike asked if we'd finally hired a gardener. I said yes, and left it at that.
For his second night with us, Adam grew more agitated in his sleep. More disjointed words, and more Russian gibberish, according to Penelope Williams, sputtered from his lips. Mama didn't challenge her husband to force Adam to leave that time. We let him be. Maybe my father was right.
Two hours after I'd gone to bed, there was a knock at my bedroom door. It was Adam. He wanted some aspirin, he had a hell-of-a headache. Also, if I didn't mind, he was starved and needed something to eat.
The whole time he was wolfing down Mama's leftover stewed chicken and shepherd's pie, I sat quietly, and kept my eye on him. As soon as the last fork-full entered his mouth, I swiped up his plate, threw it in the sink and went back to bed.
The next night, he wanted something else. A book, he couldn't sleep. I gave him Maya Angelou's 'The Complete Poetry,' and told him, "Sweet dreams."
Two nights after that, Adam, who for some inexplicable reason was still in my house, came knocking, again.
I creaked the door open. "What?"
"You asleep?"
It was friggin' one o'clock in the morning. "Seriously?"
"Yeah of course," he chuckled, like we were old friends chit-chatting over our favorite flavors of ice-cream. "It's just that umm…I umm—"
"Adam please," I huffed, groggy and impatient, leaning my forehead against the edge of the door.
"I want you to come on out here for a minute," he said. "Think I might remember something, and well, your Dad's not here so…"
"Check Tyreese, he's upstairs." I tried to push my door shut, but the demanding s.o.b. had the nerve to jam his foot against the panel.
"Hey, c'mon. One minute… please?"
'Goddammit, really?'
"Can't this wait till the morning?" I said.
He pierced me with an unrelenting stare, and again, there was that twinge in my stomach. Why did this man have to be so ridiculous? I released a long sigh. "Fine," I caved. "One minute."
Five minutes later, with Grandma Stockett's crocheted blanket draped around my shoulders, I found myself sitting at the dining table gawking at Adam's adept movements around my mother's kitchen. He took the liberty to brew two mugs of hot chocolate.
"Wait, hold on," he said, causing me to pause before I sipped from the steaming drink he set before me. "Gotta get one last thing."
I gave him a quick nod.
He pulled open the refrigerator and yanked out a can of whip cream. "This right here," he squeezed the foamy white sweetness on top of my beverage without my permission, "is what life's all about."
He then sat down on the opposite side of the table, added cream to his own mug, and took a long sip of his chocolate.
Finally, I leaned forward, and stared at him, cradling the warm cup between my hands. "How is it?"
"It's good."
"So, Adam…you asked for a minute, it's been more than five. What do you remember?"
He shifted in his seat. That solemn expression of his, from when he first entered our home, reappeared. "Think my family's from Georgia."
"You think?"
"A sign…'Welcome. We're glad Georgia's on your mind.' And this little house, yellow I think, keep popping up in my head, in my dreams."
"Which part? Georgia's huge."
He shook his head.
"Are they still there, your parents?"
"No. I mean… I don't think they're alive anymore."
"Oh," my voice softened. "So, who's still in Georgia?"
"If what I can recall is right, my aunt and uncle, they raised me. May not have wanted to, though. Not sure 'bout that." His brows furrowed as though a pain sliced through him. "I remember feeling alone, unwanted and, counting down the days till I turned eighteen."
There was a sudden ache in my throat. Unwanted? The concept was foreign to me. Both my parents came from large, overprotective, (more like overbearing) families. "I'm sorry," I didn't know what else to say. Except, "What about your name?"
He shook his head again.
I openly gaped at him. "Yeah but—"
"No, nothing." His gaze turned steely, his expression closed up.
A dose of suspicion swirled in my gut. He neither blinked, nor fidgeted. He was lying. But I dropped it. "What else?"
"I am a soldier. Signed up when I got out of high school."
"Are you…" I paused, I needed to. Was I really going to ask him this outrageous question? "Are you, working for the Russian government?"
A captivating grin spread across his face, taking me completely by surprise. "Why on earth would you think that?"
My cheeks burned. However, I couldn't help but notice that he didn't precisely say no either, instead answering my question with a question. "You talk in your sleep. And not in English all the time. My parents suspect the language is Russian."
He swallowed hard as the cocky smile fell away from his face. Closing his eyes, Adam went quiet for a lengthy moment. In all my life, I had never yearned so much, as I did right then, to know exactly what a person was thinking.
Then suddenly, without looking back at me, he spoke.
"Eto khorosho, moy dorogoy."
My heart plummeted from my chest straight to my kidneys. "W-what does that mean?"
As he reopened his eyes, his face was stricken with confusion, as I imagined mine also had to be.
"What did you say?" I asked.
His lips parted and he shook his head. "I don't know."
The following day, I made a run to the library. When I got back, my mother discovered me huddled in daddy's recliner in the living room with, of all things, a Russian dictionary. With her jaw on the floor, she stared at me like I had shaved my head bald. Adam, who was sitting on the couch with a pen and notepad in his hands, noticed my mother's dumbfounded expression, and asked her what was wrong.
"My child," she responded, with all of her southern flare, pressing a palm against her chest, "is a brilliant student. But, she never could quite get anything past a C in Languages. It was either she understood something or she didn't. And if it was the latter, well hell, she'd rather have nothing to do with any of it."
"Mama," I said, heatedly embarrassed, "I'm just bored is all."
"Mmhmm." She traipsed away and headed upstairs, but not before granting me an unnecessary warning look.
Suffice to say, two days rolled through into two weeks. The school break was over, and the new semester had ushered in. Tyreese, having to return to college, invited Adam to use his room for the duration of his stay.
Having breakfast, lunch and dinner with us, Adam managed to effortlessly integrate himself into my family. They were impressed with him.
Industrious, helpful, and proactive, Adam also proved to be considerate, yet bold and outspoken. He had no qualms about voicing his opinions. Once, for example, I overheard him encouraging my father, with all due respect, to yield to my mother's demand for a better house-alarm system. Later that day, for dessert, she gave Adam an extra slice of Pecan pie.
On a few occasions, however, we caught sight of him when he wasn't pretending to be normal. At random times throughout the day, and even once or twice in the twilight, with no coat, no blanket on, he had the suspicious habit of slithering off into the woods behind the house, muttering strange, incoherent things to himself. We never knew why, and we never asked either.
One night, when I strolled out from my haven for a glass of water, Adam was still awake downstairs. As per usual.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Mmhm. Just thirsty," I replied.
He followed me into the kitchen, watching in silence when I pushed a glass against the refrigerator water-dispenser. "You see anything interesting?" I lifted my gaze to his and pointed a finger towards the front window.
His head twisted around to glance behind him. "Everything's quiet."
"Usually is."
More and more, Adam took it upon himself to maintain a vigilant watch at night. At one time, I had snuck out my room and down the hallway to discover him sitting on a dining chair he'd dragged to the front window. On the opposite side of the living room, David Letterman chuckled with Oprah softly on the TV.
Adam's spine was ramrod straight, head fixed, his eyes focused, peering out and beyond into the indefinite darkness. I found myself entranced. For five, ten minutes I had studied him, wondering again what he must've been thinking. He was so still, and quiet, was he even breathing?
Now, as he stood on the other side of the kitchen table, I sipped the cold liquid, whilst observing him from above the rim of my glass. He was hunched forward, propped up on his forearms on the back of a chair, with one hand rubbing the strong line of his jaw. Never any sign of stubble, his face was pretty much always smooth and clean. Daddy had bought him his own set of razors, which he used daily. And I constantly smelled the spice of that frothy shaving cream, mixed with pine soap whenever I was in his vicinity. Even now, from across the room, his scent infringed upon my senses.
His fingers then combed through his hair. It had grown out, and was more thick and curly than I had expected. The ponderous stare he sent my way in that moment, told me he wanted something.
I turned and pulled the fridge door open. "You hungry?"
"Me?" he said. "No. But you could go ahead, if you want."
I arched my brow with a smirk. This was my house. "Thanks."
He smiled, realizing the silliness of him giving me permission.
I closed the refrigerator, gulped the remainder of my drink, and placed the glass inside of the dishwasher. "Goodnight," I said, intending to return to my room, but he straightened up and stopped me.
"I was thinking…" he said.
"Thinking?"
"Just now, before you came out. About confessing something." He stepped around the table and moved closer.
Instinctively, I stepped back. Whatever further confessions Adam had to make, were best directed towards my father. I glanced across to the silver teapot wall-clock. "Couple of hours and Dad will be here. After a cup of coffee, he'll listen to anything you have to say."
"Yeah, I know." He scratched his cheek. "But..."
"But what?"
"Not sure if I should say anything in the first place."
"Adam," an exasperated breath escaped me. "If you're gonna stay here much longer, you have got to start being honest with my father." I doubted Dad knew about our visitor standing on guard all hours of the night. Or that his memories, passing off as dreams, were getting more vivid every time he went to sleep.
"If you have something more to say," I shrugged my shoulders at the obvious. "then say it. Don't you think he deserves that much?"
He didn't respond. Instead he bowed his head, tilting it from side to side, without looking at me directly.
I sighed, biting back my frustration. "Adam…Adam?"
"My name's not Adam," he said, suddenly.
My eyes widened, and I drew in a sharp breath. "Okay. Well," I shook my head, "what is it then?"
"I don't think it's safe for me to say."
"Safe? For you, or for me? My family?"
Lifting his gaze, he moved his lean frame nearer to me. "For all of us." His conflict was written all over his face, and I even felt it. On the one hand he wanted to open up, needed to, about who he was and where he'd come from, and what he'd done. But on the other hand, there were consequences.
At that point, I became aware of my heartbeat accelerating, and my thoughts grew dim and hazy. Even the temperature in the damned room spiked exponentially.
'Jesus, what is this?'
I couldn't speak, but I could move, and I did. I backed myself right up against the cool refrigerator. His blue eyes constricted at my uneasiness, causing my gaze to retreat to the blue and white tile patterns on the floor. Why was I behaving so strange? So flustered?
"Things are coming get back to me," he said. "Some bad things. But not all of it."
My father really did it this time. Adam, or whatever this man's true identity was, posed a threat of some kind. "Then leave," I managed to say, looking back up at him. "Tonight."
The look in his eyes transformed. He now stared at me with piercing scrutiny, sending a jolt straight through my body.
"Just like that?" He planted both his hands against the refrigerator on either side of my head, encaging me. "In the dead of night?"
God, he was so close. I took a deep breath, wondering where was that knife when I needed it? "You said that you're a threat." I was surprised to find my voice, it came out strong, and a little loud. "You won't tell me who you are."
"I can't."
"No, not can't. Won't."
He slid his gaze down to the minimal space between us.
"Well?" I asked, perusing the intensity in his features.
He shook his head. "I won't let any harm come to this house," His voice turned to a hoarse whisper. "I thought you trusted me by now."
"I'm sorry, I don't."
His eyes flickered over my face and he frowned. "But your Dad does."
"My family's my world."
"I've seen how he treats you," he said. "Mr. Williams cherishes each and every one of you."
I nod. Of course, he did. "But his idea of family is a bit more inclusive than mine."
When the meaning of my words registered, his face went slack. A lump rose with immediacy into my throat and I knew I had made a huge mistake by saying that.
'Unwanted.'
One of the first things he remembered about himself was the bitterness of rejection. And my fear, my confusion, made me speak without care or consideration.
As he pulled away, his hands dropped and brushed against my arms. I flinched. Ashamed that goosebumps sprang up all over my flesh.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"No, it's nothing, I just… I just…"
"Hey..." He raised a hand, and stroked his knuckles against my cheek. "It's okay. I won't ever hurt you, Michonne. I could never. So if you could just stop being afraid of me—"
"I'm not afraid." But my trembling body under his touch showed me to be a liar. "Let me go back to bed Adam." 'Please?' I added in my head. I couldn't stay there much longer. The struggle was real. I was fighting to breathe. My nerve endings were tingling, my sense of rational thought quickly slipping…
His hand then fell to the edge of my shoulder, and he heaved a sigh. "Rick."
My brows furrowed. "What?"
"Not Adam, my name's Rick," he corrected. "Rick Grimes, from King's County, I'm twenty-three. That's all I can give you. Okay?"
My eyes connected with his and I gave him a wary look, but I nod anyway trying to contain my shock at his confession. He didn't verbally instruct me to keep this information to myself, but I knew I was supposed to. "Yeah…okay."
In that moment, my mother waltzed in, dressed in her night robe, discovering us alone, and standing way too close. I had done nothing wrong, but my stomach sank when I saw the look of condemnation on her face.
She ordered me to my room, and honestly, I was happy to obey, without missing a beat. By the time I reached to my doorway, though, I paused, I wanted to hear what she had to say.
"You need to leave," she said. "Think it's time, dear."
"Yes Ma'am. Think you're right," I heard him respond to her straightforwardness. "Your daughter and I were just talking is all. I couldn't sleep."
"I understand, and I'm real sorry to hear that. But, the thing is young man, my husband may be a saint…actually you and I both know that he absolutely is. And he gonna drive me to drink. But, the Lord knows that I'm not. I'm not a saint." Something then dragged across the tiles. A chair? "Don't," my mother continued, "underestimate me Adam. 'Cause I won't, hesitate, to plunge a knife straight into your gut, if you ever put your hands on my daughter again. You catch what I'm saying?"
"We were just talking is all—"
She cut him off. "Sweetie, I would drag your narrow behind, down this road for half a mile, for all of St. Joseph and them baby angels to see. Hell I'd let you bleed out into the street before I bury that pale body of yours under Mr. Johnson's sycamore tree. Do you hear me?"
Silence.
"Do. You. Hear. Me?" My mother repeated.
"Yes Ma'am," Adam said. "I hear you."
"Good. Now quit all this lurking around you been doing down here, and come on upstairs and try to get you some sleep. You and Mr. Williams have a lot to talk about tomorrow."
"Yes Ma'am."
The next day, Saturday, whilst draining her mug of herbal tea, Mama sat at the dining table with Sasha talking about dress shopping at JC Penny before visiting Grandma and Grandpa Stockett's house. Daddy already made his way upstairs to take a shower and hit the bed. As for me, I was lost in thought taking my time with the breakfast dishes.
"Michonne," Mama pushed her chair back and turned her attentions to me, "think you might join us?"
I grabbed a kitchen towel and dried my hands. "Thinking of spending the day in the library instead."
"Ugh! Nerd." Sasha crinkled her nose in my direction.
Mama smacked Sasha on her hand, albeit quite lightly, in objection to her rudeness. "C'mon sweetie," she persisted. "When was the last time just us girls done something together, huh?"
I knew what she really wanted—Me, out of the house. Truth was, I wanted that too. My conversation with Adam…No, Rick…less than twelve hours ago, played on an endless loop inside of my brain. To avoid any awkwardness would've been preferable, at least until I could figure out how to deal with him. Yet, I had no desire to go traipsing downtown behind my mother and sister either.
I gave them both a little smile, hoping for some understanding. They should know me by now, and when I prefer to be alone. "It's been awhile, I know, but—"
Just then, my words got cut off by a frightening noise from upstairs. The three of us exchanged knowing glances, our thoughts one and the same—'Daddy.'
"Oh God!" Another outburst rang out and we flew out of the kitchen trampling up the staircase.
"Alright girls," Mama said, her voice soft and light trying to keep the shared panic at a minimum level. "you know the procedure. Don't get too close, we makes sure the area is clear of any danger, and we let him ride it out."
"Yes Mama," Sasha and I chorused.
However, as soon as we made it to the landing, to our surprise, Daddy was just standing there, right out in the hallway. He was awake, lucid, and tranquil.
"Baby?" Mama reached out for him.
Recognizing the concern on our faces, Father shook his head. "Not me."
In the next second, we all stood behind him as he gingerly opened Tyreese 's bedroom door. As soon as he pushed the panel wide enough, we caught sight of Adam thrashing about in bed, and groaning in his sleep. In one stride my father moved into the room, my mother stepped up beside him warning him not to intervene.
After he tossed and turned some more, Rick, in an instant, shot up and his eyes flew open. "Stop!" Panicked, he tried to lunge out of the bed, but my parents were swift and grabbed ahold of both his arms trying to restrain him.
"Let go of me!" Rick screamed so loud Sasha's palms flew up to cover her ears. "I won't go back."
Half the size of my father but too strong for my mother, Rick's elbow swung back and struck her in the face, knocking her to the floor.
"Penny!" Daddy wrapped both his arms like a vice around a disoriented Rick, whilst Sasha and I flew to our mother's side.
After she claimed she was fine, Mama got back up. "Hold him Jack," she said, trying to catch her breath, pressing her fingers against her bruise. "If we let him up, the poor boy'll hurt himself."
"Shane, no." Agitated, Rick struggled to break free from Daddy's grip. "There's snipers everywhere. They'll kill us. They'll kill us all!"
My mother ran a reassuring hand over his head, and murmured, "Ssh. You're safe, Adam. You're safe."
Suddenly, he looked straight at me… or through me. I knew he was asleep, but still… His blue eyes were so wide with fear, pooled with so much sadness, his anguish swallowed me up, snatching the very breath out of my soul.
"They're dead," he said. "All of 'em." Confusion crumpled Rick's features, as tears streaked down his face. "Eto khorosho, moy dorogoy. Prosti menya, Pozhaluysta"
An eerie silence followed, with the exception of Rick's ragged breathing.
"Michonne," My mother looked over to me. "Get over here."
Rick began jerking again, trying to rip himself away from my father's constricting arms.
"No, stay back," Daddy said, the muscles in his face strained.
"Trust me Jack…" Mama said. "Michonne, Adam needs you front and center young lady."
"W-what…I, I don't know how." I stumbled back, feeling hollow.
"Just do like you've seen me done with your father," Mama said. "Now come on, you can do this."
Still I hesitated.
"Michonne!" Sasha nudged me in my back, and I forced my feet to move forward.
I climbed into the bed behind Rick, draped my arm over his shoulder, and pressed my trembling hand against his heaving chest. Through his T-shirt, drenched in sweat, I felt the violent thudding of his heart. His muscles stiffened and his legs kicked out. But I pinned him down.
"Alright, quickly now," Mama said, beads of sweat dotting her forehead. "Tell him what he needs to hear."
Recalling my mother's words of comfort, which I had heard one too many times, I took a deep breath, softened my voice, and I told him…
I said, "It's over. The fight? It's over. You've done your duty and now…now you're safe. Because now you are home. With us. With me. With your family. And we are all okay."
"No," he wailed, and shook his head.
"Yes," I answered, squeezing him tighter. "And someday...someday, I promise you, you're gonna be okay too… You're gonna be okay."
My mother shot me a look, and nodded. "Good. Again."
I repeated Mama's words over and over, making them my own, as my parents and I formed a circle of security around him. Rick, still groaning, finally rocked back into my arms, calmer. My father and mother released their hold, and we helped him lay back in the bed.
Without another word, we all trod out, and closed the door with ease behind us.
Hours later, after I'd returned from the library, my mother informed me that Daddy packed up 'Adam's' few things, and got him out of the house.
It was for the best, she'd said. And yes, I agreed.
Nonetheless, an unexpected sense of regret, along with an aching pang in my chest, swept through me. As well as, a distasteful irritation towards myself, like, 'Shit, I didn't even get to say goodbye.' I felt…heavy with disappointment.
I marched into my room, sat at the edge of my bed, and stared outside my window. Thick rain clouds had drifted in, shrouding the lonely country road in dense shadows. So much so, that the camellia bushes in full bloom, renowned for bursting in an array of colors, all looked grim, pasty, a dismal grey. The gloomy view was suffocating.
I turned my back, lay down on my side, and reached for my Walkman. I needed a distraction. I needed to stop wondering if I'd ever know, whether or not, our guest, our wandering visitor, was truly going to be okay.
More importantly, I needed to stop hoping that, once he was okay, I'd get to see him again. Because there was no point to that, no reason for Rick from King County to step foot back into my house.
Not even for one day.